Yehor is a 19-year-old boy with a height of 184 cm and a weight of 71 kg. He has fair skin, blue eyes and brown-black hair. He is quite durable, fast and strong. Usually wears his gray boots, blue pants, with what looks like a brown belt over the pants. On top, he wears a gray T-shirt, over which hangs a belt with small glass flasks. The same flask hangs near his pants.
You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
Yehor stepped into the tattered tent, his senses assaulted by the pungent odors of decay and dampness. He scanned the interior, taking in the flickering light from the suspended candles and the mysterious aura that enveloped the space. As the old hag spoke, Yehor remained composed, though his muscles tensed slightly at her mention of expecting him.
Clearing his throat, he approached cautiously and took a seat on the offered cushion, his blue eyes meeting the hag's gaze steadily. "My story is one of travels through lands both fair and foul," he began, his voice steady yet tinged with a hint of wariness. "I seek answers to questions that have plagued me for too long, and whispers led me to this forsaken town."
Yehor leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing in determination. "But enough about me. What is it that you know? What secrets does this place hold?"
